The Burden of Love

Everyone in Port Sterling envied me—the crippled girl Hank Devereaux, the city’s most powerful man, had cherished for ten years.
What they didn’t know: at sixteen, when enemies shattered my legs bone by bone, I never revealed Hank’s location.
A year later, Hank slaughtered that family. Amid the bloodshed, he covered my eyes and swore to protect me forever.
Doctors said I’d never walk. So Hank broke his own legs to learn to walk again with me, step by painful step.
He knelt in a chapel for three years to persuade a family of healers to treat me.
Years passed. I stayed in my wheelchair.
But Hank grew tired of me, obsessed with videos of a graceful ballerina. The night she became prima, he locked himself away.
That evening, he took me to Crown Point overlooking the city’s skyline.
As I reached to hug him, a text flashed:
[Wake up! He’s going to push you off the cliff!]
I smiled at the starlit sky and whispered,
"Finally… a release for us both."
…
Hank’s hand on my shoulder trembled. His breathing grew slower, heavier.
I greedily placed my hand over his, wanting one last touch.
In the next life, let’s not meet again.
The mountain wind whipped around us, but the fall I expected never came. Instead, I was pulled back, away from the edge.
"Clara," he began, his voice choked, the words catching in his throat.
I tilted my head, feigning confusion. "What is it? Push me a little closer. I really want to see the city lights from the very edge."
The words in my head flashed frantically.
[I knew it! He's too soft. For ten years, he couldn't stand you being out of his sight for even five minutes.]
[So what? He’s going to marry Isabelle Thorne. Clara would rather die than be the other woman.]
So, he was getting married.
My heart felt like it was being pierced by a thousand tiny, relentless needles. He had never once mentioned her to me. He’d been so careful. Was he afraid I, the stain he couldn't wash away, would throw a fit and ruin Isabelle’s pristine white tutu?
Hank pressed a backpack into my lap.
The zipper was open, revealing a stash of my favorite pastries, the stuffed rabbit I couldn’t sleep without, and the silver charm he’d gotten for me on my birthday, blessed for my protection.
He gently smoothed my wind-tangled hair.
"Clara, be good," he murmured. "I left some of the camping gear in the car. Wait for me here, okay?"
The text in my mind blared.
[He can't do it himself. He’s going to abandon her in the mountains to die alone.]
[Play the victim! Cry! The second you shed a tear, he’ll fold.]
My eyes fixed on the scar that wrapped around his wrist. It was from a time my wheelchair had careened out of control down a steep slope. Hank had thrown himself in front of it, his wrist getting horribly tangled in the wheels. The doctor said if the cut had been any deeper, he would have lost the use of his hand.
Ten years, Hank. You must be so tired.
I tilted my head and smiled softly.
"Okay."
Hank stared at me for a long moment, his dark eyes clouded with a strange mist. Then, as if steeling himself, he turned and walked away without a single backward glance.
Only when his silhouette vanished into the vast darkness did I turn my wheelchair in the opposite direction, my heart aching with a quiet loneliness.
Closer and closer to the cliff’s edge.
Click.
A wheel jammed against a rock, refusing to budge no matter how hard I pushed. In a surge of desperation, I lunged forward, tumbling from the chair and crashing onto the hard ground.
Flashes of Hank’s worried face filled my mind.
"Clara, are you hurt? Does it hurt anywhere? Let me help you up. This is all my fault. I should have been watching you."
But this time, there was no one.
My palms scraped against the sharp, gritty gravel as I tried to crawl forward. The path was too steep, my body too weak from years of confinement to the chair. I didn't have the strength.
Time stretched on, my consciousness fraying at the edges.
I couldn't even manage to die.
Clara, you really are useless.
When I woke again, the faint, sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nostrils. The hospital room door was slightly ajar, and I could hear a woman's muffled sobs.
"Why did you bring that cripple back?"
"You promised me! You promised we would get married after I became prima ballerina. We were supposed to start a new life, just the two of us!"
Through the window in the door, I saw a profile that looked hauntingly familiar. I stared, my mind reeling.
When we were children, Hank loved sneaking me into the theater to watch the ballet. I would try to imitate the beautiful dancers, lifting the hem of my skirt and spinning in endless circles.
"Am I pretty, Hank?"
He’d be holding my school bag, nodding eagerly, giggling his silly, infectious laugh right along with me.
After my legs were broken, I never smiled at him like that again.
A long moment passed before I heard Hank’s trembling voice.
"Clara saved my life."
"Ten years ago, the Donovans held her captive for a month. They did… things to her. But she never told them where I was."
Isabelle’s voice was laced with sorrow. "Then what about me? What am I supposed to do?"
After a heavy silence, Hank spoke, his voice cracking.
"Isabelle… there are days I wish she had died in their hands back then. But I… I can’t abandon her. I just can’t."
Isabelle sounded desperate.
"Even if you don't care about me, think about yourself! For years, you've watched over her day and night, never leaving her side. The slightest noise wakes you. The doctors said your heart failure is getting worse, but you won't get the transplant because you're terrified you won't wake up, terrified there'll be no one to take care of that… cripple."
A loud thud echoed as Hank slammed his fist against the wall, his voice raw with agony.
"Don't say anymore."
"If I die, it'll be a release. For me… and for her."
No.
I don't want Hank to die.
I struggled to pull the IV from my arm, accidentally knocking a glass vial off the bedside table. It shattered on the floor.
The door flew open.
Hank rushed in, with Isabelle following close behind, her eyes burning with resentment.
The text in my mind exploded.
[Oh my god! Isabelle is the illegitimate daughter of the Donovan family, the one who escaped!]
[When the Donovans came for revenge, they kidnapped Clara to find Hank, and they tortured and killed Hank’s mother to send a message!]
[Isabelle had a crush on Hank. She thought he’d been captured by the Donovans and went to that warehouse to 'save' him.]
Isabelle feigned concern, picking up a piece of gauze to wrap my hand. Her face, it merged with the face of the little girl from ten years ago, the one holding a red-hot branding iron.
"I'll ruin that face of yours. We'll see if Hank still wants you then."
The searing heat of the brand against my cheek, the sickening tear as it pulled away skin and hope.
I recoiled, my whole body trembling uncontrollably.
"Get away! Don't touch me! Get away!" I screamed, shoving her with all my might.
Isabelle stumbled backward.
Hank caught her, pulling her into his arms. And in that instant, he broke.
"Clara, have you had enough of this madness?!" he roared. "For years, anyone who tries to help you, you accuse them of being a Donovan! It's been so long! Why aren't you better? Why do you keep hurting innocent people?"
"Am I supposed to be trapped in this hell with you for my entire life?!"
After I was rescued, I was plagued by nightmares. Anyone who came near me was met with frantic scratching and biting. Hank would hold me, his arms covered in my nail marks, and soothe me over and over. It's okay, Clara. I'm here. You're safe.
But now, it was as if a fuse had been lit. He was a cornered animal, smashing everything in the room he could get his hands on.
I covered my ears, shaking my head and sobbing.
No. This time it's real.
Isabelle is a Donovan. She’s the daughter of the man who killed your mother!
The thought screamed in my mind, and I shouted it out loud.
Isabelle’s face went pale, and she instinctively shrank away.
Hank's hand froze in mid-air. His dark eyes locked onto mine. Then, a bitter, broken laugh escaped his lips.
He let his arm fall, his voice dead and calm. "I guess I've spoiled you too much. I was so afraid of upsetting you that I kept you from the outside world, and it’s only made you more delusional."
"Isabelle and I are getting married tomorrow."
"If you want, you can continue to live at the estate. We'll both take care of you."
"If you don't… then you're on your own."
He took Isabelle's hand and turned to leave.
Don't go. Don't leave me alone. Why won't you believe me?
I fell from the bed, clawing my way out of the room, leaving a smear of blood on the polished floor.
Everyone stared. A small child saw the jagged scar on my face and burst into tears.
"Mommy, kick that dirty thing away!"
"How can someone be so disgusting? Let's go, let's go, don't want to catch her bad luck."
"Look at her legs… those pits and scars. It's making my skin crawl."
Hank’s steps faltered. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Isabelle whispered something to him, and he nodded.
He didn't look back at me again.
I curled up in a ball on the hospital corridor floor, sobbing until I nearly passed out before Devereaux family staff came to take me home.
In the car, the assistant and driver muttered to each other.
"I don't know how much longer the boss can put up with this burden."
"That Sterling project… the whole company, seven hundred people, worked on it for over two years. But the boss was so distracted by this damn cripple in the hospital that he offended the clients. It's probably a lost cause now."
"If it weren't for her, Devereaux Industries would have expanded overseas years ago instead of being stuck in Port Sterling."
My chest felt tight, but I couldn’t form a single word of rebuttal. I let the maids roughly deposit me in my bedroom.
In the dead of night, I was roused by a searing heat on my face. The nerves there were mostly dead from the old burn, and by the time I jolted awake, hot wax had already hardened on my cheek.
Isabelle stood over me, holding a candle. She was drunk, her eyes gleaming with a crazed light.
"Clara. I can't believe you recognized me."
"But so what? Even the Donovans' matriarch didn't know about me, her husband's bastard daughter. There's no way Hank could ever find out. Besides," she smirked, "he already killed all the Donovans for you."
She thrust the candle towards my face, and I screamed.
"Fire! Fire! Get it away! Get it away from me!"
Isabelle let out a wild laugh. "I'll give you two choices. A quick death in the flames, or you can wait until I'm the lady of this house and let me torture you bit by bit, just like the old days."
She tossed the candle onto the curtains, and the flames roared to life.
Triumphant, Isabelle turned to leave, but I grabbed her wrist with a death grip, pulling her down with me.
Then let's die together.
If I die, Hank will finally be free of his burden. And he'll never have to know he fell in love with his enemy's daughter. He can be happy for the rest of his life.
The fire raged, growing larger. Isabelle screamed for help, unable to break my grip.
Hank burst in, yelling my name. He instinctively moved to pull me from the floor, pushing Isabelle aside.
"Hank!" Isabelle cried, her voice thick with false tears. "I heard Clara having a nightmare and came to comfort her. But she just went crazy, calling me a Donovan, and she pushed me and set the fire…" She showed him her ankle, already swelling from the fall.
The warmth in Hank’s eyes turned to ice.
He let go of me and scooped Isabelle into his arms, carrying her out of the inferno.
The staff scrambled to drag me out after them.
I tried desperately to explain.
Hank shoved me away, his face contorted with fury.
"Clara, you are completely unhinged," he spat. "You used to love dancing more than anyone. You know the pain of not being able to. Why would you pretend to be insane and try to destroy Isabelle's future?"
"Does my entire life have to revolve around you for you to be satisfied?!"
His eyes were bloodshot and vicious. "Ten years! I don't owe you anything anymore! I never want to see you again."
"It's not like that, Hank! Isabelle, she really is—"
"Enough!"
The sharp crack of a slap echoed in the room, my head snapping to the side.
Hank stared at his own hand in shock, his usually proud posture slightly stooped.
"Take her away," he said, his voice utterly exhausted.
They injected me with a sedative and drove me to the old Devereaux family estate. A dozen servants guarded the house like a fortress, ensuring I couldn't ruin Hank’s wedding.

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